


doctor-patient confidentiality

by AnonTheMoose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Like, M/M, Patient Stiles Stilinski, Taking Advantage, The most dubious of consent, and theo takes advantage of that, as in, but he didn't, but he really shouldn't have, doctor theo raeken, dub con, fuck me but this is the filthiest thing i have ever written in my life, holy shit, it is SO FILTHY, stiles consents to everything, stiles should have looked up what a full physical exam meant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 11:25:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6702838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonTheMoose/pseuds/AnonTheMoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Stiles has applied for the Police Academy and just needs to pass a physical in order to secure his place, and Theo never set foot in Beacon Hills and grew up to be a doctor.</p><p>Too bad Stiles didn't have time to research what exactly is involved in this whole "full physical" business. And too bad Theo's not the kind of doctor to not take advantage of an oversight like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	doctor-patient confidentiality

**Author's Note:**

> I don't actually know whether you have to take a physical to get into the Police Academy? It seems probable though. A friend of mine joined the army, and he had to have a full physical, so. We're gonna say the Police Academy requires the same.
> 
> Also, I – being a female – have no idea what goes on with either testicular or prostate exams. But I'm pretty sure they don’t go like this. 
> 
> Which leads me to my final point: massive, massive advantage is taken by Theo, here. This is not how physicals are meant to go. If a doc ever tries any of the below with you, you punch him in the face, kick him in the balls, and run for it, screaming the whole damn way. Got it?

Stiles is really regretting not looking this all up in advance.

 

But, see, he hadn't even thought about it? Like, _must pass a physical examination before admittance to the Police Academy can be successful,_ sure, no problem. It's just a regular doctor's check up, right?

 

Only, _no,_ apparently.

 

Because Stiles _thought_ it was a regular, run-of-the-mill doctor's check up, but then freaking Jordan had to start talking about, like, prostate exams and shit. And he didn't bring it up in time for Stiles to actually research what happens in a physical, of course, because Jordan's an asshole like that. No, he waited until they were nearly outside the damn clinic (the Jeep was playing up again, so Stiles' future colleague had offered to give him a lift) to say, "The worst part is when you have to take all your gear off. I just – I'm never gonna be comfortable with having to do that in front of some random guy, you know?"

 

"Uh, what," Stiles had said, because words are his forte when he's surprised, clearly. "What do you mean _get your gear off_? It's just a physical, right? Like, a regular check up."

 

Jordan had blinked in surprise.

 

"No, it's a _full_ check up. They check _everything_."

 

"Define everything," Stiles had said, tense and wary and kind of not really wanting to know the answer.

 

Jordan had sent him a pitying look.

 

"Have you ever had a prostate exam?"

 

And so now Stiles is sitting in the waiting room _freaking out a little bit_ , because he'd barely even had time to squawk in indignant surprise before they'd pulled up in front of the clinic, and he couldn't even stay in the car to demand more detail from Jordan because a call had come in over the radio about a crash on Elm and North, _and_ he hasn't had a chance to look it up on his phone because he'd walked in the door and been given, like, a million forms to fill out.

 

He's got his head down, writing furiously, hoping to power through the forms fast enough that it leaves him enough time to hit up Google, and he's so focussed on what he's doing that he doesn't notice the doctor walking down the hall towards the waiting room who stops abruptly, eyes blinking wide and locked on Stiles.

 

There's only one other person in the waiting room, and she's a mother busy with her fussing child, and the receptionist is focussed on her computer, so no one notices the way the doctor blinks a couple of times, swallows hard and then straightens, visibly getting himself back under control as he pulls a pleasant-yet-bland expression down over his face.

 

Stiles notices none of this, so when a voice asks, out of the blue, "Mr Stilinski?" he nearly drops his clipboard full of forms in surprise.

 

"Uhh, yeah?" he replies, once he's managed to save everything from hitting the deck, and – fuck. Fuck, Stiles really hopes that guy who called his name isn't his doctor. Because the guy who's standing in the doorway in a white doctor's coat and a bland, pleasant expression on his face is _hot._ In a kind of weird ken-doll type way? Like no, seriously, on the one hand the guy is Barbie's counterpart, yet weirdly, on the otherhand, the dude looks like a piece of freaking _art,_ holy shit. Stiles really hopes this guy is, like, anyone other than his doctor.

 

"Step through to my office?" the guy says, because obviously, Stiles isn't going to catch any kind of break here. Fuck.

 

"Uh, sure, yeah," he says, and stand up, then turns and bends to collect his scattered bag and hoodie from where they're lying on the floor by his chair.

 

By the time he's straightened and turned around again, he's entirely missed the way the doctor's eyes fell to his ass to follow his movement before smoothing back over into professional politeness again.

 

Stiles is jittery and nervous as he follows the doctor (young, the _young_ doctor, fuck, the guy looks like he's Stiles' age) down the hall towards the last examination room, but he swallows hard and tries to force his nerves away. It's fine. This is fine. It's just a routine physical, whatever that is, and it's uncomfortable and awkward, but it's necessary to his dream. He's joining the Police Academy. It's been his dream for as long as he can remember, and he's not going to let a standard step in the process that everyone else has achieved get in his way.

 

"I'm Doctor Theo Raeken," the doctor introduces, closing the door once they're both in the room and walking over to sit at his desk. "Now I understand you're in for a full physical. Armed Forces?"

 

"Uh, Police Academy, actually," Stiles says, standing awkwardly. Is he supposed to sit? There's a chair on the other side of the doctor – Dr Raeken's – desk, but there's also an examination bed along one wall. Does he sit by the desk, or is he supposed to go straight to the bed?

 

"Police Academy, wow," Raeken says, leaning back in his chair and making no moves to tell Stiles where to go. "A very just career choice."

 

"My dad's a Sheriff," Stiles says, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

 

"Ah, family tradition, then," Raeken smiles, clasping his hands together and resting them on his lap. "Well, we'll get started, I suppose. You've had a full physical before, Mr Stilinski?"

 

"Uh, no," Stiles says. "Just, you know. Normal check ups. And it's Stiles."

 

Dr Raeken blinks questioningly.

 

"What's Stiles?" he asks, blank.

 

"My name," Stiles clarifies. " _Mr_ _Stilinski_ makes me think my dad's in the room. Just call me Stiles."

 

Dr Raeken smiles.

 

"Stiles then. So, no physicals before now - but you know what to expect?"

 

"Uh, no," Stiles says again, shifting uncomfortably on his feet and flitting his eyes all around the office, instead of making eye-contact with the doctor. It means he misses the appraising look the other man gives him. "I thought it was just, you know, a regular check up until like ten minutes ago. You know - lungs, heart, all working fine, yay you're good to go, thanks for coming kinda thing."

 

Dr Raeken chuckles.

 

"Well, we do cover your heart and lungs, yes. But we'll also be checking everything else. Eyesight, muscle definition, lymph nodes, testicular and prostate health, kidney and liver, etcetera. Alright?"

 

"Uh," Stiles says, swallowing dryly. "S-sure."

 

The doctor smiles, his expression kind.

 

"It's alright to be nervous," he says. "Especially since you've never done anything like this before. But let me assure you, this is totally run of the mill. Perfectly standard. I've done hundreds of physicals, and I promise you've not got anything I haven't seen before."

 

Stiles nods jerkily, trying to take comfort in the doctor's words. He's not particularly successful. Still. Police Academy. Think of the goal, not the road you have to take to get there.

 

"Right then," the Doctor says, and turns back to his computer. "If you get undressed, we'll get started."

 

"Oh, uh – now?" Stiles asks, caught off guard. He'd assumed they'd start with, like, eyetests or something. Something he could, you know, keep his clothes on for?

 

"There's a basket in the corner you can put your clothes in," Raeken says, not turning away from where he's entering preliminary details from the forms Stiles filled out into the computer.

 

Stiles swallows again, steeling himself. Well. Best to get it over with, he supposes, and starts to yank off his shirt.

 

Dr Raeken keeps his focus on his computer, which Stiles appreciates. He's not sure he'd be able to do this if the guy hadn't turned away.

 

He piles his Converse and socks in a messy pile, and yanks his jeans off and dump them on top of his shirt, and then pauses. Maybe his boxers can stay on, for the moment? If they're doing all the rest of the physical first, and all?

 

The doctor must hear the movement cease, because he turns around in his chair – only to register Stiles' boxers and smile sympathetically.

 

"Those too, I'm afraid, Stiles," he says. "And the sooner we get this done, the sooner you can get dressed again."

 

Stiles presses his teeth together and swallows again, waiting for the doctor to turn around again - but the guy merely gestures, a patient look on his face, so Stiles steels himself, grits his teeth and shoves his boxers down over his hips, kicking them to join his jeans once he's stepped out of them, and then he straightens and stares dead ahead, trying to pretend that he's not standing stark naked in front of a total stranger in the middle of a brightly lit examination room.

 

"Ok," Raeken says, pushing himself out of his chair and walking over, eyes running over Stiles from head to toe in a clinically appraising manner. Stiles resists the urge to cover himself with his hands. "Healthy skin tone, well proportioned, good muscle tone – but we'll get to all that later. Alright, just jump up on the bed for me?"

 

Stiles turns, movements stiff and awkward, and uses the step next to the bed to get himself up onto the mattress.

 

"Uh, how do you want..." he asks, and gestures.

 

"Just sit yourself on the edge, facing me," Raeken says, and waits for Stiles to arrange himself so that his legs are hanging together over the edge of the bed, hands clasped over himself in his lap and spine uncomfortably straight.

 

"Good, now - we're just going to test your reflexes; spread your knees for me?"

 

Stiles keeps his knees together.

 

"Uh, could I," he starts, and swallows. "Couldn't I still be dressed for this part? You don't, uh – I don't need to be, you know, naked, for you to test my reflexes, right?"

 

Dr Raeken levels an expression at Stiles that is equal parts pitying and understanding.

 

"I understand this is uncomfortable for you," he says reasonably. "But I've done more of these than I could count, and you really don't have anything to be nervous or embarrassed about. Ok? This is all completely standard, and nothing to be worked up about."

 

Stiles swallows again and nods, but doesn't move his legs.

 

Dr Raeken takes a step away, half turning towards the door.

 

"I can get one of the other Doctors instead, if you'd prefer someone else?" he says, gesturing towards the door.

 

Like a different doctor would help. Stiles would still be naked, still sitting on a hard plastic mattress about to be _examined_.

 

 _You're being stupid,_ he chides himself. _It's just a physical. Everyone who's ever gotten into the Academy has had one. This is normal. The Doc has said so himself. So toughen up._

 

"No, it's fine," Stiles says, and before he can chicken out, spreads his legs as wide as they can comfortably go.

 

Raeken hesitates.

 

"Are you sure?" he asks, still with one hand stretched out towards the door. "I can get someone else, if you'd prefer. It's no trouble."

 

Stiles is sitting naked on an examination table with his hands cupped over his junk and his knees spread wide, and the guy is still asking if he should go get someone else.

 

"You're fine," Stiles repeats, wishing he didn't feel like some kind of... wanton porn star, with his legs spread like this. "Let's just get on with it."

 

"Well, if you're sure," Raeken says, and waits for Stiles to nod sharply before he reapproaches. "Well then. We'll start with the right."

 

Dr Raeken picks up the little hammer thing that Stiles has seen a million times in TV shows and yet doesn't know the name of, and puts a hand on Stiles' thigh.

 

"Put your hands on the mattress either side of your hips and hold on to the edge for me - the kick can really throw you off balance," he says, and Stiles bites his lip and reminds himself that this is all routine, all normal, all totally standard, and jerkily uncups his hands from where he'd been covering himself and moves them to grip the edge of the mattress instead.

 

"Good, now, you'll just feel a little tap – it won't hurt at all – "

 

The hammer hits just below Stiles' kneecap, and the lower half of his leg bounces up in response.

 

"Good, perfect, and once more to make sure," Raeken says, and does it again. The same process happens with the left leg, and the whole while, Stiles is acutely aware that he's sitting totally exposed with his knees spread like some kind of centrefold spread.

 

"Wonderful, now just shift back a bit and lie down for me – on your back," Raeken says, totally professional, like he hasn't had Stiles' junk staring him in the face for the last few minutes.

 

Stiles complies, and his hands automatically start creeping back in in an attempt to cover himself again, but Raeken taps his wrist and says, "Arms by your sides, please," and Stiles bites the inside of his lip and does as he's told.

 

"Right, so I'm just going to have a bit of a feel around your abdomen; make sure your stomach, liver, and all that feel normal and healthy – try to relax."

 

Try to relax, he says. Sure. That's likely.

 

The doctor spreads his fingers over Stiles' abdomen, and starts applying pressure - gently at first, and then firmer. He starts just above Stiles' bellybutton and works his way down, pressing as he goes.

 

Stiles keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling while the doctor works and wills himself not to react - to not even twitch. He wants to give the term _still as a statue_ new definition.  And he's doing fine with this while the doctor works his way down, pressing and prodding and gauging the health of Stiles insides from what he can feel externally, until he moves solidly out of the abdomen area and past the crest of Stiles' hips, his fingers digging into Stiles' happy trail like it's just another bit of skin.

 

Stiles takes a long pull of air through his nose and clenches his fists in an effort to keep still, sending desperate _stand down, stand down_ messages to his dick, which is starting to notice with interest the hands that are coming perilously close to it.

 

The doctor's fingers brush through the outskirts of Stiles' pubic hair, and Stiles can't contain the full-body twitch that elicits.

 

Raeken doesn't react to Stiles' twitch – just keeps pressing with his fingers, face tilted up and an expression of concentration in place while his hands dance just along the edge of Stiles' pubic hair and Stiles struggles to force himself to breathe normally. His dick is really starting to show interest, now, and it's taking all of Stiles' concentration to bring it under control - because the only thing that could make this situation worse would be if he popped a boner right in front of the doctor's face.

"Seems all good," Raeken says, patting Stiles' hip comfortingly and apparently not even noticing the stirrings of activity that are going on below. "Now stand up for me, and we'll check that muscle definition."

 

Stiles swallows hard and swings himself up to a seated position, then slides off the bed to stand in front of the waiting doctor.

 

"Lace your fingers behind your head and put your feet hip-width apart," Raeken says, and once Stiles has, the doctor places his hands on Stiles' shoulders and starts feeling his way along.

 

"Good straight lines there," he says, hands running along Stiles' collarbones. "Never broken your collarbone?"

 

"No," Stiles says, keeping his eyes locked on the eye chart pinned to the back of the closed door. It's a good distraction from the fingers dancing along his skin. E, B G O, A H Y S Q D L.

 

"Good, good – nasty break, that; try to avoid that one, if you can."

 

His hands come down over Stiles' collarbones, and he feels his way sideways to Stiles' underarms. Stiles twitches again.

 

"Not ticklish, are you?" Raeken says, sending a grin at Stiles.

 

"A little," he replies shortly, still focusing on the eye-chart. A H Y S Q D L, W U A N Z P M N X.

 

"Sorry," the doctor says, and continues pressing for a moment, before moving his hands back around to Stiles' chest. Dr Raeken's fingers skim over Stiles' pecs and make their way down to the slightly muscled plane of his stomach. Stiles' dick twitches again.

 

"You have very good muscle definition – how much time do you spend at the gym?" Raeken asks, totally calm and professional, like running his hands all over a naked man's muscles is all in a day's work for him. Which apparently it is, judging by what the guy said earlier, but whatever.

 

"None," Stiles answers, and the eye chart has blurred as Stiles refocusses all his energy into keeping his dick in line as the Doctor's hands roam lower. "I played lacrosse for years though." And, you know. Ran around with a werewolf pack dealing with all their shenanighans, which was sure to result in some muscle.

 

"Huh," Raeken says, and his hands are getting perilously low again, but his voice remains that perfect balance of clinical distance and polite interest as he says, "Clearly I should look at getting into lacrosse."

 

Stiles' breath is hitching a little on the inhale and the exhale as he holds still, arms up and fingers laced behind his head, and he's struggling to keep his breath under control when the doctor says, "Ok, and turn around, and we'll check your back muscles and your spine."

 

Stiles turns, and makes to drop his hands, but Raeken says "Oh no, keep them there for the moment – helps pull the muscles taut," so Stiles swallows again and keeps his hands where they are.

 

Raeken gives Stiles' back the same treatment as he gave his chest, but intersperses his muscle examination with checking Stiles' spine as he works his way down, fingers digging and probing around each vertibrae.

 

"All looking good so far," he says occasionally, giving updates every now and then as his hands travel back and forth and lower and lower, past the dip in the spine and down toward the curve of Stiles' ass.

 

Raeken's hands settle on either side of Stiles' hips, fingers splayed around the curve of bone at the front while his thumbs meet in the middle over Stiles' lower spine so that he's practically cupping Stiles' ass cheeks, and begins to inch down.

 

The doctor's fingers slide away from Stiles' hip bones so that his thumbs can continue tracking Stiles' spine down, and Stiles jerks in surprise when the man's thumbs breach the start of his ass crack, and Raeken's hands still.

 

"It's alright, Stiles," Dr Raeken sooths from behind him, voice calm and professional and coming from lower down than Stiles expected, hands resting warm and firm on Stiles's ass cheeks. The guy must be kneeling back there. And that's, wow, not helping with the whole 'at ease, mini-Stiles' thing Stiles is still trying to achieve here.

 

"I just need to check your whole spine," the doc continues. "And that includes your coccyx - your tailbone, that is."

 

"I know what a coccyx is," Stiles says, a tad sharper than he intended. "It's fine – I was just surprised. Go on."

 

"You're sure?" Raeken asks, not moving a muscle. The guy's hands are warm, and very still on Stiles' bare skin.

 

Stiles' tongue flashes out to run over his lips in agitation and he breathes out sharply through his nose, shifting his arms where they're still up, hands behind his head.

 

"Yeah, just – it's fine, can we get on with this please?"

 

The doctor hesitates for a further second.

 

"I just need to make sure you're comfortable with this," he says, and Stiles snorts.

 

"Buddy, comfortable is the actual opposite of what I am right now."

 

There's a pause.

 

"Well, ok, fair enough," Raeken concedes, and his fucking hands are still on Stiles' ass, thumbs resting against his spine between his cheeks. "But – do I have your consent to continue?"

 

"Yeah, ok, yes, just - can we get this over with, please?" Stiles says, because he wants this exam to be over and done with _yesterday_.

 

"Very well," Raeken says, and continues.

 

Stiles clenches his teeth as the doctor's thumbs follow the line of his spine all the way down through his ass crack, the palms of the guy's hands flexing over Stiles' cheeks as he presses and probes until his thumbs curl around the base of Stiles' coccyx, and Stiles' breath hitches in his chest a little at the proximity of those thumbs to... other things.

 

There's a curling, stirring heat developing low in Stiles' stomach, and he doesn't need to look to know that his dick has moved along from _interested twitches_ to _definitely starting to harden._ It's an automatic response to having someone else's hands literally all over him, but it's still the absolute last thing Stiles needs right now, and he thinks wildly of... of... of Scott having sex! Yes, good. Terrible mental image. Scott is his bro. Imagining Scott having sex is, blegh. The mental image might work.

 

"All in order," Raeken says, and then, "Now I'm just going to do the testicular exam while I'm down here. Have you had one of those before?"

 

Stiles swallows.

 

"No," he says, once he's sure his voice will come out steady.

 

"Right, nothing to worry about - I'm just going to examine them by touch and make sure that there's nothing abnormal going on. You alright with that?"

 

Not even remotely. But he's even less alright with not getting into the Academy because he failed to complete a damn routine physical, so.

 

"Sure," Stiles says, through clenched teeth. Just think of the Academy. Lifelong goal, and this is the final hurdle. Can't stumble at the final hurdle.

 

"Ok – keep your hands up behind your head for now, and just spread your legs a little further for me," Raeken says, nudging at Stiles' inner knees until he moves them further apart. "Good, that's it. Now, I know this will probably be difficult, but try not to tense, ok? It's too hard to do a proper exam if the patient is tense, so try to relax."

 

To his credit, Stiles does try. He wants this to be over and done with as soon as possible, so he's going to do everything in his power to help it along. And if that means trying to relax while a doctor examines his testicles, well, then that's what he's gonna try to do.

 

But then Raeken's warm hand slides in from behind and cups Stiles' balls, and everything in Stiles goes tense.

 

"Try to relax, Stiles," the doctor says, his other hand coming to rest on Stiles' hip in a move that's either meant to be calming or restraining, Stiles isn't sure which.

 

Stiles isn't sure which, because Raeken literally has Stiles' balls in his hand, and he's – f _-fuck,_ what is he doing, _massaging them_?

 

" _Relax_ , Stiles," Raeken says, flexing and squeezing – with his whole hand all at once, and then in a rolling motion from his little finger to his thumb and back again.

 

"F- _fuck_ ," Stiles says, locking his knees and tightening the hands he still has behind his head into fists so that his fingers are yanking on his hair. There's no stopping his dick now, not with actual testicular massage going on right now, and Stiles gets dizzier and dizzier as all the blood rushes from everywhere in his body to power his partially-hard dick all the way up past halfmast and straight to fully erect.

 

"I just need to see if there are any irregularities, Stiles, and I need you to relax so I can do it," the doctor says, loosening his hold enough so that he can reposition his hand and gently squeeze from a slightly new angle.

 

 _Relax_ , the guy says. Like Stiles isn't practically panting just with the effort of staying on his feet.

 

Raeken squeezes and gently palpitates a few times more, then lets out a breath of air through his nose and lets go, getting to his feet and walking around so he's in front of Stiles.

 

"I'll try again, alright?" he says calmly, holding Stiles' gaze with a professionally earnest expression and reaching to grip Stiles' shoulder with one hand. "Some people find it easier if it's done from the front. And, oh – don't stress that you're erect – it's a perfectly natural response to testicular stimuli. Healthy, even."

 

Stiles barely has time to swallow again before Raeken reaches for him with his free hand - paying absolutely no mind to the very erect penis he has to reach past (which - f- _fuck_ ) and takes Stiles' balls in his hand again.

 

Stiles' breath catches in his throat and his head falls forward when the doctor squeezes and one finger brushes his perineum, and it's only Raeken's other hand on Stiles' shoulder that keeps him from falling into the other man. Stiles manages to keep his hands behind his head, but only because his fingers are still tangled tightly in his hair and pulling, and that's helping him remain upright.

 

Raeken feels around for a few moments longer, his hand on Stiles' shoulder steady, until eventually he sighs and withdraws.

 

"I'm sorry," he says, still standing right in front of Stiles and with one hand on his shoulder. "You're too tense for me to do an accurate assessment. We'll leave it for the moment."

 

Stiles straightens, fingers tangled in his hair doing most of the work to pull himself back to a fully upright position, and tries to remember how to breathe steadily. He's too tightly wound to even register embarrassment, even though he knows distantly that he should be mortally embarrassed right about now.

 

Raeken is either politely not mentioning Stiles' state, or he's so used to this kind of thing that he's barely even noticed.

 

"Now," he says briskly. "We'll check your heart and lungs for now, and try again with the testicular exam when we check your prostate – if you could just read through the eye-chart for me while I get the stethescope, and we'll get that part out of the way."

 

This is officially the most bizzare experience of Stiles life.

 

He's standing naked in the middle of a doctor's office, hands behind his head and legs spread in a wide A, hard as a freaking mast, and the doctor is asking him to read through the eye-chart.

 

"Um," he says, and swallows dryly. God, he needs a drink of water. Or vodka, maybe.

 

Right. Eye-chart. Don't think about what's already happened; don't think about what's to follow – just think about the Academy, and read through the eye-chart. Naked. With a boner. In front of the hot doctor, who's approaching with the stethescope.

 

He clenches his fingers in his hair and forces himself to focus on the eye-chart. If the doctor isn't saying anything about the full hard on he's got going on, then Stiles can pretend to ignore it too. Right. Eye-chart. Sooner he reads it, the closer he is to being done with this whole thing.

 

"E," he starts, and his voice is so hoarse, fuck. His dick throbs, protesting. Poor thing went to all the effort of getting up, and now everyone's ignoring it, Stiles thinks wildly, before he coughs and refocusses.

 

He clears his throat and reads the second line. "B G O." Voice is still hoarse and rough, but apparently there's no fixing that, and Raeken is standing just off to the side with the stethescope ready to go as he waits for Stiles to get through the chart. "A H Y S Q D L..."

 

"Perfect," the doc says, once Stiles has haltingly read through the whole chart. "Now this one, I believe you know how it goes - deep breath when I say so, then exhale as much as you can out as evenly as you can."

 

He reaches out with the chestpiece and lays it just to the right of Stiles' left nipple, and Stiles' whole body jerks in surprise because _holy shit_ it's cold.

 

"Sorry," Raeken says, and brings it up to his mouth to breathe hot air over it, then places it back. "Better?"

 

Stiles nods jerkily, not trusting his voice to come out steady if he tries it, and he breathes in when Raeken tells him to and out again when he's told to, and eventually the doctor takes the stethescope out of his ears.

 

"Lungs sound perfectly healthy," he says, dumping the instrument on his desk. "Heartbeat was rather fast, but otherwise sounded healthy too. Now," he says, turning around again and locking eyes with Stiles. "We'll do the prostate exam now - I'm assuming you've never had one of these?"

 

Stiles presses his lips together and shakes his head.

 

"Right, well there's two ways we can do it. One – I get you up on the bed on your back, knees up and legs apart with a block under your tailbone to lift you up; or we use one of the chairs and you rest your forearms on the back of it and bend over. Most men tend to prefer the second option, I find - they feel less exposed. But it's up to you entirely, of course."

 

 _Wow_ , Stiles really doesn't want to do this.

 

Academy. Think of the Academy. A uniform, a badge, a career of saving lives. Think of that. His fingers clench hard enough in his hair that it hurts. Think of the Academy.

 

"Uh. The, uh, second, I guess," he says.

 

Raeken nods easily, and steps past Stiles to pull one of the visitor chairs out from the other side of the desk and place it in the middle of the room, its back to Stiles.

 

"Whenever you're ready," Raeken says, gesturing.

 

Stiles untangles his fingers from his hair, only now realising that they were still up there. He probably could have dropped his arms a while ago. It only takes two steps to reach the chair, but it's an extremely awkward two steps, what with the _extremely erect dick_ that's still standing at full attention. Fuck, it's throbbing so badly.

 

"So if you just fold your arms along the back of the chair and rest your head on your forearms," Raeken says, and Stiles has to swallow dryly again before he can.

 

"Good," the doctor says, walking behind Stiles and tapping the insides of his knees. "And just spread those a little further – a bit more – that's it. Now stay there for just a moment, and I'll get my supplies."

 

Stiles follows the sound of the doctor's footsteps as they cross the room, bent over at a right angle with his legs spread as far as they go and his dick hanging hot and heavy between them, and tries to breathe. There's the sound of drawers opening and closing, the snap of gloves, and then the footsteps are reapproaching.

 

"Alright," Raeken says, once he's behind Stiles again. "So have you ever engaged in anal sex before, Stiles?"

 

Stiles runs his tongue over his lips in a futile attempt to wet them.

 

"No," he replies.

 

"Have you ever experimented on yourself?"

 

"No," he repeats, shaking his head curtly.

 

"Ok, well, I'll walk you through what I'm going to do," Raeken says, and there's a click of a lid and then something wet and fucking _cold_ squirts onto Stiles' hole.

 

"Sorry, sorry," the doctor says when Stiles squawks and jumps, resting a hand on the small of Stiles' back to still him. "I didn't realise the bottle was that full, sorry. That was just some lubricant. It helps make things go easier."

 

Stiles' mind is all over the place. He's standing bent at the waist, ass sticking out and dick hard and throbbing, with a man he met not even an hour ago but who's already had his hands literally all over Stiles and is about to have his fingers /inside/ him. He's never felt this exposed or vulnerable in his life and his heart is rabbiting, but at the same time his dick is throbbing so hard it hurts, and the two combined are making his lungs work double time so that his breath is hitching and gasping badly enough that he's not sure if he's about to pass out or about to come.

 

Also, _fuck_ , his dick is sore.

 

"Now, I'm just going to work this in and around so it coats the whole area," Raeken says, the hand on the small of Stiles' back sliding down and around so it's wrapped around his hip instead, and the other hand – _fuck_. The other hand comes up to Stiles' hole, and the doctor uses his thumb starts spreading the lube around and around, teasing at Stiles' rim but not actually pressing in. It's really fucking cold, and Stiles might whimper a little bit.

 

"Alright, now the aim of this is for me to find your prostate," Raeken says, while his thumb swirls around Stiles' anus. "I need to manually examine it for swelling or abnormalities. Are you ready?"

 

Stiles so, so isn't. But he's come this far, and the end is in sight. He clenches his eyes shut and nods sharply.

 

"Ok, now try to relax," Raeken says – because that worked so well last time, Stiles thinks acerbically, but then a gloved finger slides past the rim of his anus and pushes inside him, and – Stiles brain shuts up for once in its life.

 

He must make a noise or something – a groan, maybe, or a gasp, and his hands shift on the back of the chair so they're no longer just resting on it but _gripping it._

 

"Am I hurting you?" Raeken asks, leaning over Stiles, concern in his voice.

 

Stiles tries to say no, but it comes out as "Nnh."

 

And it doesn't hurt – he's not lying. It's weird, absolutely, but it's more a... pressure, than anything else. A good pressure, maybe? Like when you stretch after too long sitting still. But that's a weird thought, that it might be a good pressure, so Stiles tries to ignore it.

 

"Tell me if I hurt you, alright?" Raeken instructs, straightening back up and tightening his hand around Stiles' hip repositioning the paler man slightly before pressing in a little deeper in a move that makes Stiles' breath catch. "Now, this may be a bit uncomfortable for you, but I need to feel around until I find it. Have you ever developed film, Stiles? Proper old-style camera film, not digital."

 

"What?" Stiles asks on a gasp of an inhale. What the fuck? Camera film? What?

 

"The film isn't allowed to be exposed to light until it's been chemically treated," Raeken says, like he hasn't got a finger half-buried in Stiles' ass. "To get it safely from the camera into the film casing, you have to put the whole thing in a black bag, seal it against the light, and then transfer it over by feel alone. You don't know until you've taken it out of the bag whether you've done it correctly. That's sort of what this is like. I know where the prostate should be, theoretically, but actually finding it can take a bit of fiddling."

 

He has indeed been _fiddling_ while he speaks, and he's almost knuckle-deep in Stiles now, finger roaming about blindly while Stiles tries to breathe with anything approximating a steady rhthym.

 

He pushes in as deep as he can, still questing blindly, and Stiles can't help the sound that comes from the back of his throat.

 

"No, sorry - I'll have to try with two," Raeken says, withdrawing his finger. Stiles sags at the sudden lack of pressure, and it's only the chair and Raeken's grip on his hip that keeps him from buckling.

 

His dick is leaking, he registers distantly. He can feel the tell-tale beading that's starting to accumulate and drip off the end onto the doctor's grey carpet. That's slightly gross. Stiles hopes these floors get steam-cleaned.

 

Stiles jerks in surprise and cries out a little when there's a sudden slap of more icy-cold lube.

 

"Sorry," Raeken says, thumb on Stiles' hip sweeping in soothing circles as the fingers of the other hand spread the lubricant around and probe gently at Stiles' hole again. "It was a bit dry, and you really shouldn't do this dry."

 

He presses in again – with two fingers this time – and Stiles' breath leaves his chest in a stuttering whoosh. He thinks he might be whimpering a little on every second exhale, now.

 

"Now, a lot of men find this stimulating," Raeken says, like Stiles' dick hasn't been a literal bone between them since the attempted testicular exam. "And I just want to reiterate to you that it's completely normal to become aroused by this sort of stimulation, and that I've seen it before. Especially when I find the prostate – and especially as you've never experienced this kind of stimulation before. It's quite possible that you might ejaculate, and that's nothing at all to be ashamed or embarrassed about."

 

Stiles hears maybe half of that.

 

Ok, maybe more like a quarter? But in his defence – there are two fingers up his ass searching and probing and moving about, and Stiles can't decide if it feels invasive and wrong or if it feels like the most amazing thing he's ever felt, because deciding things requires brain power and brains need bloodflow, and all of Stiles' blood is currently occupied with his pulsing dick.

 

As it is, Stiles is gasping for breath and making a sound that could be construed as a whine every time Raeken's fingers move, and the only things keeping him upright are the back of the chair he's leaning on, Raeken's hand on his hip, and – this too, absolutely – the two fingers that are impaling him like he's some kind of spit roast.

 

And then Raeken huffs and says, "Maybe if I - " and scissors his fingers wide and back in close again, and Stiles' knees buckle.

 

"Oh, hey, no – up you come," the doctor says, hand that had been on Stiles' hip sliding down and under to wrap around Stiles' belly, and he hoists Stiles back up until the paler man can get his feet under himself again. The arm stays wrapped around Stiles’ waist.

 

The fingers press in again, deep, and Stiles whines into the skin of his forearm.

 

“Nearly, Stiles, I’ve nearly got it,” the doctor says, and then he crooks his fingers up and –

 

White sparks across Stiles’ eyes, and he cries out in surprised pleasure.

 

“There we go,” Raeken says, and hits the spot again, and all the air leaves Stiles lungs as though it’s been punched out of him when the white pleasure bursts across his eyes again.

 

“Now, I just need to –” Dr Raeken says, and Stiles keens into the fabric of the chair he’s leaning on as the white explodes across his vision for a third time, and he’s – he’s gonna – he’s gonna –

 

“And actually – while you’re relaxed – ” Raeken says, and the arm he still has wrapped around Stiles’ waist holding him up shifts around until he can reach down past Stiles’ leaking dick to take a hold of his balls at the same time that his fingers hit Stiles’ prostate again, and––––

 

––––white explodes across his eyes and there’s a roaring in his ears and his knees buckle underneath him, and………

 

Stiles comes to sitting on the carpet against the wall, legs splayed and muscles loose, breath still heaving in his chest but starting to settle.

 

“All clear,” Dr Raeken says, upon noticing that Stiles is back among the land of the cognisant. “No swelling or abnormalities – and that plus everything else, and you’re the picture of health.

 

Picture of health? He feels more like the picture of the debauched. His head feels full of clouds.

 

“You’re gonna need to get your carpet steam cleaned,” Stiles says, which, yeah, thanks brain, great move, you’re not at all an embarrassment.

 

Raeken looks over to the mess Stiles made of the back of the fabric chair and carpet, and chuckles.

 

“Not a problem,” he says. “Like I said earlier – totally normal. Expected, even, in a healthy male of your age. Besides, it’s hardly the worst this room has seen.”

 

Uh… great. Stiles totally isn’t wondering what the worst the room has seen is, thanks. Stiles is _currently_ sitting on the carpet that has seen worse things than jizz, wonderful.

 

But Stiles is starting to creep back towards more aware, now, and with the receding clouds of endorphins billowing around in his brain comes the realisation that he’s _sitting slumped naked against the wall with his legs splayed wide and his now-soft dick lying flopped to the side_. Holy shit. Holy _shit._

 

“Here,” Raeken says, and Stiles looks up from his mortified panic to find the doctor holding out his bundle of clothes.

 

“Shit, sorry – ” he starts, reaching for them, but Raeken rolls his eyes and waves a hand.

 

“I already said there’s nothing to apologise for, and nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says dismissively, turning back to his desk to sit at his computer, leaving Stiles the privacy of his turned back to get changed in.

 

And it’s… kind of weird, to be shown that privacy now, after everything that just went down, but whatever.

 

“I’ve sent your results through to the Academy,” Dr Raeken says a short time later, turning around to find Stiles dressed again. “Full marks – a definite pass. Here’s your copy.”

 

“Uh, thanks,” Stiles says, reaching out a hand to take the sheet of paper. It’s extremely brief in it’s detail.

 

Aside from his name and other details, all it says is: _Full physical examination, performed by Dr Theo Raeken. Status: Passed. Declared fit for active duty._

 

It seems like not all that much, considering everything that was involved in it.

 

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Dr Raeken asks, once Stiles has read the sheet through.

 

“Uh, no – that’s…. that was all,” he says, and Raeken smiles professionally and holds a hand out.

 

“Well it was nice to meet you, Stiles,” he says, as Stiles reaches slowly out and shakes his hand. “And good luck with the Academy.”

 

“Thanks…” Stiles says, and then Theo turns back to his computer with a final smile and Stiles lets himself out into the hall, wandering down to the waiting room in a slight daze.

 

\------

 

(When the door shuts behind Stiles, Theo manages to wait a whole twenty-two seconds to make sure he’s properly gone before unzipping his pants and reaching in to wrap a hand around himself with a low groan. He comes explosively within a minute, cresting so hard so fast that he blacks out for a second, and minutes later when he slowly swims back to awareness, the underside of his desk has been added to the list of things he needs to clean up before he brings in his next patient.)

 

\------

 

"How'd you go?" Jordan asks five minutes later, pulling up to the curb and letting Stiles throw himself into the passenger seat. Crash on Elm Street hadn’t been that bad, it turned out – fortunately for all involved.

 

"It was extremely weird and uncomfortable, and I never want to speak of it again," Stiles answers, plugging in his seatbelt and turning to stare resolutely out the windshield.

 

Jordan chuckles warmly, and doesn’t mention it again.

 

When his dad asks later, Stiles just says he passed and leaves it at that. He’s had his physical, it’s done with, he can now officially forget about it. It was awkward and unpleasant and he doesn’t need to go into detail about it with anyone.

 

And if he has really confusing dreams the next few weeks and always winds up jerking off to a mental image of a ken-like man in a doctor’s coat, well. That’s no one’s business but his.

 

…

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any glaring errors - it is 2:03 in the morning. Because apparently that is when filthy badwrong smut must be written.


End file.
